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have a complete set of the Shakespeare Head edition? I am most grateful for your kind remarks about my work as editor of these Brontë volumes. I laboured over this great task for many years, and latterly without much help from Mr Wise, it must be said, when he was in the fog and mist surrounding the alleged exposure of his supposed forgeries in other fields. This was over two decades ago, of course, and at the time it would have been inappropriate for me to offer any comment on such murky matters. Nor would I wish to apportion blame or judgement now. However, between ourselves - and I know I can count on your complete discretion on keeping this secret - I very much doubt the genuineness of the various signatures of Charlotte and Emily Brontë which appear on many of the earlier manuscripts. How can we therefore be sure that it was Emily, and not Branwell, who wrote such marvellous poems?
    Mr Symington paused, crossed out the final sentence of his letter, and then tutted to himself as his fountain pen dripped ink on to the already blotted paper. He bent his head closer to the page to examine his words, squinting through his spectacles in the shadows, and sighed. It was noon, but the summer's day did not intrude into Mr Symington's study; the blinds were drawn against the sunshine, as he always instructed, to protect the contents of his bookshelves from the damaging light. Mr Symington himself looked as pale as the papery leaves of the manuscripts that he had just retrieved from within hidden boxes and files; he looked as if he did not often venture outside.
    He was almost certain that he had locked the door of his study behind him, as was his custom, and put the key in his pocket, along with all the others, but then, suddenly, he felt anxious that he was mistaken, and stood up again, to check that the door was securely fastened, though he had already done so several times this morning. 'You cannot be too careful these days,' he muttered to himself, as he always did when locking his study, as if the words provided an extra protection, along with his regular checks on the door. The house was silent around him, aside from the buzzing of a dying fly at the closed window. His wife Beatrice was running errands (what did she do with herself on these outings, he wondered; where did she go?) and their days of employing three full-time servants were long gone. Beatrice must be content with a weekly char, and though she had been grumbling, Symington feared that even that expense was far too much for him.
    He threaded his way back through the piles of books that formed ramparts around his desk - a big, mahogany bureau that dominated the study - and reread the letter that had arrived this morning, to which he was attempting to reply. It was a most unexpected letter to receive, amidst the usual bills and circulars, from a lady novelist, Daphne du Maurier. Symington had never read any of her books, though he vaguely remembered seeing a play of hers in Leeds after the war; Beatrice had persuaded him that they should go, because she was a fan of du Maurier's. And what was the name of the leading lady? Symington pushed his thumbs into his temples hard, as if he might squeeze the answer out of his head, and then he smiled in triumph; Gertrude Lawrence, that was it and the play was called September Tide . He couldn't recall the details of the plot, nor the titles of du Maurier's other work, aside from the one that was turned into a film, the famous one, Rebecca; though Beatrice had a stack of the books somewhere in the house - romantic novelettes, he believed them to be, inconsequential and far more appropriate for his wife than himself. But even so, he was flattered to receive the letter; for the author was famous, and remarkably well connected, Symington realised, after looking up several references to her and her family in his well-thumbed copy of Who's Who . He felt some pleasure in the discovery that Daphne was the daughter of Sir Gerald du